


A Hill to (Not) Die Upon

by argentum_ls (LadySilver)



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Gen, Gift Fic, Highlander Holiday Short Cuts Challenge, Mention of Cory Raines, Slice of Life, raccoons - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-03
Updated: 2020-01-03
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:34:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28058514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadySilver/pseuds/argentum_ls
Summary: Ceirdwyn's quiet night at home is interrupted by an unwelcome visitor.
Comments: 18
Kudos: 17
Collections: Highlander Holiday ShortCuts 2020





	A Hill to (Not) Die Upon

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Eliyes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eliyes/gifts).



> Eliyes,
> 
> I know this year has been especially tough for you. I hope this quiet story brings you a smile or an awwww.

Ceirdwyn settled into her chair with a mug of hot apple cider in hand. Pinks and reds filled a sky that was rapidly sinking into darkness, a bit earlier with each passing night. Soon she would feel the bite of crispness that portended the inevitable coming winter, but tonight the temperature still hovered on the low side of comfortable and the thin sweater she’d brought outside just in case hung unneeded across the back of the chair. The chorus of the evening was already in full swing: crickets chirping in the bushes along the edges of her property, the low hooting of an owl somewhere in the strand of trees across the way, the distant susurration of traffic from cars too far away to see. She had the whole night to herself: no social engagements, no pressing household duties, no deadlines at work.

On the far side of the street, she spotted a pointed nose stick out of the storm drain and survey up and down the empty street. Satisfied, the creature wrapped its little black hands around the bars of the grate and tugged it free. Seeing similar hands at work had always given Ceirdwyn the creeps, and now the dexterity with which they worked made her pull her legs up, folding in on herself, as if the creature could somehow reach across the meters between them and grab her. She knew it couldn’t, and she knew that even if it did, those hands couldn’t inflict harm worse than the claws of the wolves and bears she’d hunted in her younger days, yet that knowledge didn’t assuage the irrational part of her mind. 

The creature heaved its heavy body out of the drain and into the open. Ceirdwyn sucked in a short breath of surprise as she fully recognized the animal, then exhaled slowly so as not to startle it. The less it was aware of _her_ presence, the better. Even after all this time, she still had a hard time believing that raccoons were real and not the fevered imaginings of naturalists who knew only of the nature written about in books, nor of explorers who never stepped foot outside their salons. And every time she was reminded of raccoons’ existence, she still wished they were nothing more than some kind of philosophical thought experiment.

She’d happily lived over fifteen hundred years without knowing that raccoons inhabited the planet along with her. She could have happily spent the rest of her life not knowing.

Somehow Cory had ended up in the New World first of all the Immortals she maintained contact with. The first she learned of his travels came upon receiving a letter from him. A letter! She’d only ever known him to with requests for her to pull strings to get him out of jail, or money to do the same—and this one started in the same. In his barely-competent scrawl, he enthused about all the opportunities a guy such as himself had at his disposal among the traders and colonists, and then he described some of the wildlife he’d encountered. She thought for sure he was joking, especially when he wrote about a cat-like bandit that untied the laces on his tent, sauntered right in, and stole his food. The sketch he included looked like a badger. To emphasize its duplicity, he’d drawn a mask across its eyes. As someone who’d worn his share of masks, it figured that Cory would personify like that any animal that stole from _him_. Ceirdwyn had crumpled the page up and tossed it into the fire, not in the mood for his games.

Less than a century later, she learned that, though Cory’s art skills needed work, his observational skills didn’t.

The raccoon turned back toward the storm drain and waited as another, smaller animal scrambled out. A second one followed, then a third, chittering as if begging the others to wait for it. The mother nosed the final kit when it fully emerged onto the street and the kit quieted. Even Ceirdwyn couldn’t be so hard-hearted against the species to not recognize the sweetness of the moment. She smiled into her cup at the universal softness of a mother reassuring her child, and tucked her feet a little tighter against her chair because she knew where they were headed.

Their striped tails waving, the mother led her kits in a line across the street. They walked with confidence, though the kits struggled between the desire to follow their mother and the urge to stop and play. Either was a safe choice as no traffic threatened them; the only vehicles that drove down this lane were Ceirdwyn’s and the mail truck, and the mother raccoon was experienced enough to know that.

In her centuries, Ceirdwyn hadn’t adapted as well to urban living as raccoons had. Though she enjoyed the idea of being close to theaters, clubs, museums, and stores, she preferred to breathe air that didn’t reek of exhaust fumes and to sleep with the moon and stars visible through her windows—a reminder, if she ever needed one, of her significance in the universe. She only asked for privacy, not extravagance, so finding a house that met all those needs stayed easy enough. 

Even so, compromises were always necessary. Four of those compromises trundled toward her yard, their noses and whiskers twitching in anticipation of what they’d find.

The raccoons moved in near silence, though each step sent Ceirdwyn’s heart thudding. She shifted in her seat and cast an eye around the low wall that encircled her patio, checking its integrity. The vigilance and battle-readiness she’d learned among the Iceni never went out-of-date, no matter how much the world had changed.

To fight down the urge to yell or to charge, to exert her dominance over this yard, she sought out positives. The cider’s aroma filled her mouth and the steam warmed her face. In the trees, the owl continued to hoot at irregular intervals. Tonight, only a thin sliver of moon hung overhead, allowing the nighttime to settle in faster than even the time of year warranted. 

Half way across the yard, the mother raccoon drew to a stop. She rose up on her back feet, front hands dangling as she re-assessed her own perimeter. For a moment, her nose pointed at Ceirdwyn and her sharp white canine teeth glimmered with light reflected from inside Ceirdwyn’s house. The two women stared at one another, each challenging the other to make the first move, each tensed and prepared to fight should the other attack first. Though Ceirdwyn had her sword and a variety of other melee weapons inside, any warrior knew that the best fight was the one no one engaged. Besides, the patio wall and a swath of lawn lay between the two. Ceirdwyn took a slow sip of her drink, savoring the apple as it washed across her tongue and let her gaze slip to the side. Though she may not like the animal, she had to admit to some grudging respect for the life it lived and the ease by which it had claimed it. 

There was no need for a challenge tonight.

The mother raccoon dropped back to all fours and continued her trek around to the garage, where the garbage bins waited, her kits tumbling behind her. Ceirdwyn watched until they disappeared from sight, leaving only a trail of hand prints pressed into the grass. The bins were proofed against raccoons, a lesson she’d learned early and had to re-learn every time she lived in the Americas where, instead of fearing humans and separating from them, the wildlife had chosen to move in to the populated areas and help itself to what it wanted. Coyotes walked into downtown cafes to warm up, deer grazed on children’s playgrounds—and raccoons helped themselves to open garbage bins, then left the shredded remains of their plunder strewn across the yard for Ceirdwyn to clean up. She’d never like the species.

Ceirdwyn took her last sip of the cider—the bit of warmth it provided offset the first chill of night air that brushed her cheeks—and stood up. From the far side of her house, she heard the bins rattling one after another as the mother raccoon tested their effectiveness. While contemplating how soon she could move to someplace in the world that didn’t have raccoons, she grabbed her sweater and headed back inside. 

She didn’t need to witness what would come next. Raccoons looked like misshapen wombats and deserved few positive adjectives except in regards to their tenacity. But tenacity was a trait Ceirdwyn appreciated, and the kits needed to eat. For them, she’d left out a special bin that was safe for the kits to practice climbing in and out, and which held only healthy morsels for them to enjoy. Live, she thought, and let live. In the long term, that’s all that mattered.


End file.
